


Plan E

by space_sheep



Category: Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_sheep/pseuds/space_sheep
Summary: Late 2019, Singapore, Brett's bedroom.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	Plan E

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, it has nothing to do with real Brett and Eddy.
> 
> Lots of thanks to [twosetmeridian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twosetmeridian/pseuds/twosetmeridian) for the proofreading.

... a strand of hair fell on her face, the tips tickling his chin. She straightened up, casually tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled seductively, her hips moving faster.

“You are doing so good…” A lustful voice generated from dozens of different clips.

Brett raised a hand, put it on her perfectly round right breast, squeezed it lightly and reached for another slobber kiss. The movements of their hips accelerated and—

“Oh, come on!” Brett exhaled in frustration and opened his eyes. The pulsating ball rolled down the hill, not reaching the peak again; the image of the girl disappeared, and his hand on the dick began to ache unpleasantly. He needed to hurry up, otherwise he would have to change hands, and he’s not good with his left hand and also too tired so it’ll go nowhere. And he really wanted to fall asleep. To pass out. No thoughts, no worries, only a pleasant warmth deep inside his chest and his lower abdomen.

Brett sighed and fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable position, then started going through the pictures in his head.

Nothing was good enough. Big tits, hot bulked-up bodies, his poor imagination. All rubbish.

There remained Plan B. Or rather, considering how deeply and thoroughly it was pushed into the back of his mind, Plan E. Emergency. Eddy.

Bare hands in the dim light, clumsy fingers, uneven breaths on his neck, a confused look in his eyes. _Brett?.._

Feeling the well-known, trampled trace, the ball instantly pulsed again and rolled uphill.

It worked.

Of course, it fucking worked!

“Wait, no,” Brett cursed himself. He can't get irritated, otherwise he’ll have to start all over again. To think about it longer. As if there is a limit, exceeding which, he’ll immediately fall through the ground or will be thrown into outer space.

Scrolling through the familiar scenes again, Brett quickened his hand movements, repeating every breath in his head, savoring every touch. Some of them were completed by his imagination; some of them he still remembered like they happened yesterday. Like how slowly, hesitantly Eddy's hand crawls under his shirt (in reality, Brett repeated this movement, touching himself under the T-shirt with his free hand) and how the calloused pads of his fingers traced the delicate skin on his side making him shiver—

Brett opened his mouth, panting. The pictures and sounds in his head became more and more blurry, unreal and sensual: the mouth, the lips, the moans, perhaps some of them heard in reality; images flickering one after another, the pulsing ball almost reaching the peak and—

“Knock-knock.”

Fuck!

The knock on the door was quiet, but in Brett’s ears, it sounded like two big firecrackers exploded right behind his back.

“What?” Brett asked, maybe too loudly (he couldn’t hear it behind his frantic heartbeat), belatedly thinking that he should have just not reacted at all.

“Brett? Are you asleep?” A muffled voice came from behind the door.

“Yes!”

A pause.

“Lies.”

Argh! Brett pulled out one of the three pillows from under his head and pressed it to his face. The scare quickly gave its way to frustration and shame. The frustration was stronger.

“What do you want?” he asked through the pillow. Eddy hardly heard any words, but he still caught the question.

“It’s work. Can I come in?”

Brett sighed and tore the pillow from his face, his gaze travelling from the ceiling to the tent in his shorts.

“Is it urgent?” His voice sounded more tired than he would have liked.

“You ok, bro?” Eddy cautiously inquired from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, I’m just—” another sigh, “I was helping myself to fall asleep.”

It took Eddy 5 seconds to remember one of the code designations for intimate privacy.

“Oh, shit! Sorry.”

“Nah, it's fine.” Brett closed his eyes again and winced, stuffing all the images into the back of his mind. He would never pull them out again. Never. Until the next time.

“Well, then I’ll—”

“Fuck it, come in! It’s not like I’m going… anywhere anyway.”

“Bro…” Eddy's voice was full of sympathy.

Fucking great.

Burying his face into the pillow one last time, Brett exhaled loudly, threw it aside, and sat up, fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand. The door knob clicked dully, and Eddy appeared in the doorway. There was a laptop in his hand, highlighting his face and his hair that were ridiculously sticking out in different directions - the result of the long day work. While Eddy was searching for the light switch with his free hand, Brett put his glasses on, dangled his legs over the edge of the bed, and put the pillow on his lap.

“What's up?” Brett blinked, trying to get used to the too-bright light. Eddy sat down beside him.

“Tchaik t-shirt designs, approve or decline. Better do it now.”

The laptop screen was still a white blank spot. Brett lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’ve already said the contour one is a no.”

“There are two more.” Eddy moved closer, tilting the laptop towards him. His left thigh and shoulder squeezed comfortably into Brett’s own. One of the fantasies appeared from the back of his mind, teasing; Brett annoyingly pushed it back.

Two pictures finally appeared on the screen: the picture of Tchaikovsky edited like the most famous photograph of Einstein with his tongue out and a pop art in Andy Warhol’s most famous works’ style.

“Dude…”

“I like the second one better too,” Eddy agreed quickly. “But the colors…”

“We can change them,” Brett shrugged. “Ask her to make several variations, then we’ll choose the best one.”

“Ok, wait— can you take it for a sec—" Eddy handed Brett his laptop and reached for his phone in the pocket. Brett put the laptop on the nightstand, catching the sliding pillow in the process. Straightening up, he noticed that Eddy, who was typing a message, glanced at him quickly and began to bite his lips as if trying to hide a grin.

“Fuck you,” Brett muttered.

“What?” Eddy looked at him with his most innocent expression. “What? I texted her; I’m waiting for an answer.”

“Fuck you,” Brett repeated tiredly, wishing that his phone wasn’t charging on the table on the opposite side of the room.

“Come on,” Eddy slightly nudged him with his shoulder, “It’s not like it’s the first time.”

The end of the phrase trailed off, and Eddy turned away. Brett glanced at him; he was staring at his phone, quickly switching through the apps.

Not the first time, of course. Eddy's house, one room (or a couch in the living room, a hell for his back). Brett's apartment in Sydney, one bedroom. Three tours, one hotel room. Melbourne, two beds, 3am. Eddy had been asleep for a while, and Brett had been struggling with his insomnia again, flipping through social media for too long. The excitement of the show still burned in his chest.

Jerk off and fall asleep. Easy.

Just don’t think that your friend, who is sleeping two meters away, may not be sleeping. That maybe he’s lying there, trying to breathe slowly and evenly, listening to the rustle of the sheets, the repeated muffled sound of skin to skin, the uneven breathing that becomes louder, an accidentally escaped groan: a middle G. That maybe his cheeks were burning and his pulse was accelerating, and he had waited for his roommate's breathing to slow down so that he could crawl out of his bed and slip into the bathroom.

“It's a good thing he didn’t wake up to pee earlier,” Brett thought, falling asleep. He thought again in the morning, thought about the other scenario, and then quickly pushed his thoughts away.

“Do you miss sharing a room together?” The question should have sounded playful. Brett wasn't sure he succeeded.

“I dunno,” Eddy said distantly, as if going through his own memories. Remembering all the times he thought Brett was asleep. Brett wasn’t. Brett had a whole collection of breaths and sounds in the back of his mind along with this other memory. Sometimes they combined together into the one hazy daydream, and then Brett could come in three minutes.

The silence started to feel uncomfortable. Brett felt a lump forming in his throat.

“Next tour, if everything goes well, we can book two separate rooms,” he suggested carefully with a thin voice.

“Why?” Eddy asked, looking almost frightened.

“You’re right, there’s no need to,” Brett agreed cheerfully, his brain not keeping up with his mouth. “Better to stay in the more luxurious hotels, right? Where the walls are not made of cardboard and where they give you a bottle of wine for free. Better not to get drunk though. Haha.”

“Haha, yeah. Better not to.”

It was almost funny. Singapore, a new half-empty apartment, 2 am, and here he was, tired, frustrated, with a half-boner under the pillow and his best friend by his side. With whom he had gotten drunk eight years ago and then had sex with. Or they hadn’t. Most likely they hadn’t. But they for sure tried to.

Stupid drinking games, both of them being lightweights, unfortunate circumstances (one girl broke up with Brett, another one refused to date Eddy), one bed in the attic of their friend's house, adrenaline rushing through their veins and his stupid 19-year-old brain that was following his primal instincts more often than it was in a state of panic five minutes before a performance.

In the morning, Brett convinced himself that Eddy didn’t remember anything. He also carefully suppressed the thought that Eddy might have convinced himself the same thing about him.

The phone vibrated, and a notification flashed on it. Eddy lowered his head, his finger hovering over the screen.

They never talked about it.

His finger twitched, and the screen went out.

They never talked about it, because at that time, they didn’t know how to talk, and when they learned, it was already too late and didn’t matter anymore anyway. Or did it?

“Do you remember when you came to my room looking for a tablet a couple of days ago?” Eddy began slowly, carefully choosing his words. “I then too… was trying to help myself to fall asleep.”

“It was 7 am.”

“Shut up, I'm nocturnal.”

“You're an idiot.” Brett nervously sucked air into his lungs. He wanted to laugh and run away, throwing a pillow at Eddy on the way out. “It’s ok. I’m an idiot too.”

“I didn’t think about it for a long time, honestly. I almost forgot. And then she and I broke up, and then you almost moved in with me, and then we bought this apartment, and I—"

“Eddy, I want to sleep.”

Eddy stuttered and slowly turned his head. His eyes froze on Brett’s face; the lights were flickering in his irises.

“I really, really want to sleep,” Brett repeated, the familiar feeling of _the concert starts in one minute_ bursting in his chest. “So you either get out, or help me.”

Eddy didn’t move for a few seconds, as if he was absorbing Brett’s words, his gaze hesitantly dropping on his mouth. Then he looked up again, looking more brave than Brett felt, licked his lips, and leaned forward.


End file.
